


Someday I'm Gonna Be Free, Lord

by MnemonicMadness



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Clever Aziraphale, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Getting Together, Holding Hands, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Canon, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Reunions, Separations, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:20:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29204253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MnemonicMadness/pseuds/MnemonicMadness
Summary: “How have you… whiled away the last two years?” He supposes it is a better conversational starter thanStill a demon, then?, if only slightly. The silence shaped to fit where the words my dear might ordinarily go somehow feels even quieter.“Oh, uh, uhm… Yeah, whiling, it’s been a while, lots of… you know. Wiles. A very wily while. You know how it is.”“Yes, quite.” He hesitates, rethinking his answer. “Well, no, wiles aren’t really my department. Blessings, though, and a miracle here and there. It’s been rather peaceful.”Lonely, he doesn’t say.A tale of love, Love, ineffability, and loopholes.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 40





	Someday I'm Gonna Be Free, Lord

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JaredKleinman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaredKleinman/gifts).



> Happy birthday!!!!!!! I'm wishing you all the best, good health, not too much stress, not too much boredom either, and don't let the math homework defeat you XD Here's to hoping that this year'll bring less insanity than the last one <3
> 
> This is my take on the whole divine Love vs the human concept of love thing, which is one of my fav tropes in this fandom, and while it's probably hopelessly unoriginal at this point, hey, we all enjoy a good trope-y fic, right? I know I do, and I hope you might as well :D
> 
> Title is the obligatory Queen lyric, of course.

Aziraphale is not nervous. Anticipatory, yes, perhaps even pleasantly so. But not nervous, as he has no reason whatsoever to be nervous, none at all. He will simply spend a nice evening with Crowley, his dear old friend, as they have done countless times before and should hopefully do countless times more. A nice evening with a bottle or two of a fine vintage to smooth things along. Not that things might need smoothing along, no, such a thought veers dangerously close to suggesting that he may need something to soothe his nerves, which he does not, seeing as he is not at all nervous.

No, it will be just another nice but unremarkable evening between the two of them, filled with drinking and conversation, both of which are going to come naturally, particularly the latter, he has complete confidence in that.*

Taking a deep, calming breath, not to calm himself but simply because it is pleasant to do so every now and then, Aziraphale stops pacing up and down the length of his bookshop’s main area and sits down in his armchair instead. Browses the books that are within reach, until his eyes insist on sticking to the empty sofa – Aziraphale may have bought it, it may be in Aziraphale’s bookshop, but it nonetheless is _Crowley’s_ sofa – opposite him. This has nothing to do with his decision to get up and relocate to the kitchen instead, he simply has a sudden craving for a nice mug of cocoa.

Just as he reaches the kitchen’s doorway, he hears the bell above the shop’s door announce that said door has been opened with a cheerful little jingle, which is cut off rather more quickly than usual. Since his door has been locked, this can only mean the arrival of a certain demon. A demon, or another of the unpleasant fellows the London mafia sends every once in a while to enquire about the possibility of obtaining the premises currently housing A.Z. Fell & Co. But as it has only been a week since Aziraphale last persuaded one of said fellows to pursue a different lifestyle, this is very unlikely.

There is no denying the trickle of relief running through him. It’s not that he has expected Crowley to simply not show up, but it has been a while, and his arrival puts a very welcome end to the anticipatory wait.

Hurriedly, he turns and makes his way back to the front room, where almost against his will his feet root themselves to the floor so that his full attention can be on taking in the sight of Crowley. While it has only been roughly two years, which is hardly a long time for two immortal beings who used to spend decades and, at least in the beginning, even centuries without seeing one another, considering their last meeting and the conversation they’d had during it, seeing him again feels… significant.

* * *

_“We shoul- I mean, may- Maybe it’d be for the best if we, you know. Go our separate ways for a little while. Just for a bit. You know, cool down.”_

_Those yellow eyes seem too bright, seem to shout that this is the very last thing he wants. It’s the last thing Aziraphale wants, as well._

_“Cool down. Yes. That… That would be… prudent.”_

* * *

While Aziraphale himself has hardly changed, Crowley’s hair is longer than when he’d last seen it, and he once again wears what is presumably the very newest style. Only his smile is the same as always, small but genuinely fond.

“Hi.” Crowley greets him, affecting cool nonchalance, but missing the target, the word sounding too soft and breathy in the silent bookshop.

“Good evening, m-” My dear. It comes so frighteningly natural to call him that, but he had promised to be careful, promised to stop. “Crowley.” he finishes instead. Which, given his previous line of thought, brings him to the idea of combining the two into _my Crowley_ , which is the last direction his thoughts should be taking right now, and he has to spend a moment redirecting them.

Crowley’s eyebrows rise slightly from behind his shades at Aziraphale’s silence, and he gestures vaguely towards the back room as he breaks it. “Should I…?”

“Oh! Yes, yes, of course! Please, do sit down, make yourself right at home!” Another enticing but very much unsuitable thought, and he hurriedly turns away, once more towards the kitchen. “I’ll fetch us a nice bottle of wine, I’ll be back in a jiffy!”

He half expects some quip or tease from his dear friend, but instead, when he risks a quick glance back, he sees him merely nod before making his own way in the direction of the back room, languid saunter somehow seeming less confident than usual.

Getting the wine takes at once not nearly long enough, certainly not long enough to compose himself, not even long enough to fully convince his corporation that really, this heart rate is uncalled for giving the current, low level of exertion, and yet, too long for the tugging in his heart, the one drawing him back to Crowley’s side, now that he has the opportunity to be precisely there again for the first time in two years.

On his way back there, his hand is clenched tightly around the dark glass of the bottle, just a smidge nervously, perhaps.

It’s nice to see Crowley’s sofa occupied once again, the demon draped over it with a faux-casual, serpentine grace, one arm sling over the back of it, leaving a space beside him that for a dangerous moment looks just the perfect size for Aziraphale’s corporation to occupy it. It’d be rather comfortable there, he’d imagine, if he were to allow himself to imagine such a thing, if he hadn’t promised to never give into the temptation such an image might provoke. If he didn’t know better, he might’ve thought Crowley to be tempting him on purpose.

There is a decidedly unusual tension to Crowley’s frame that seems to release just a fraction when Aziraphale finally settles down in his armchair. There might be a slightly, reluctantly disappointed slant to his mouth as well, but Aziraphale elects to pretend to not have seen it, if only to keep his gaze from catching on the demon’s lips. No good would come from that.

With a click of his fingers, two wine glasses are very surprised to find themselves suddenly on the newly-existing couch table instead of continuing to rest in the kitchen cupboard, and Aziraphale busies himself with pouring them both a generous helping of wine. He pours it for quite a while, though as he expects the wine not to spill over the rim and the bottle to not be empty, the wine and the laws of physics have little choice but to sigh in exasperation and accommodate. The silence begins to stretch between them, not yet uncomfortable, but at the very least as tense as his companion. 

Their fingers very nearly brush as he hands one of the glasses to the other being, and he is taken aback by the hollow feeling in his chest at the lack of the almost anticipated touch. Really, he has no reason to feel so bereft, especially not now that he finally has Crowley’s company again. They never did touch much, and he has always been content with their friendship as it was. He shouldn’t be longing to take a demon’s hand, not even _his_ demon’s, not even now that he _knows_. And while he wouldn’t exchange that knowledge for anything, he will admit that ignorance, while certainly not bliss, was sometimes easier.

* * *

_Crowley, ever so observant, immediately spots Aziraphale’s realisation and those lovely, yellow eyes grow dull and walled, all the emotion that is usually so openly displayed in them hidden. Badly, but the attempt alone has Aziraphale’s heart break for him._

_Ordinarily, he might immediately squash the un-angelic impulse to comfort the demon. This time, he doesn’t. Crowley’s hand feels cool and almost delicate beneath his own._

_“Oh, my dearest.” he exhales, more breath than speech. Making no attempt to hide his own joy and love, now that he knows that said love is returned, even though it seems like Crowley doesn’t know that yet. He aims to rectify this immediately. “My darling, I lo...”_

_The cool skin of a demonic palm covers his lips and cuts him off. Confused, he seeks Crowley’s eyes again, eyes that are no longer trying to hide anything, are wide and panicked and shining wetly._

_“Ssstop! What the heav- hell- what the_ sssomewhere _do you think you’re doing angel? You can’t- you- you...” The quiet, urgent hiss breaks and trails off, and Aziraphale would feel a sinking terror that he might have misinterpreted Crowley’s feelings for him after all, if it weren’t for the obvious pained longing in Crowley’s gaze._

It’s alright, dearest, _he says, hoping to soothe, to comfort,_ whatever it is, we’ll figure it out _. Or at least that is what he intends to say, whereas in reality, due to the palm still covering his mouth, what he actually says is rather more like “Mmph.”_

_“Don’t sssay it, Aziraphale. Pleassse, I’m begging you. Don’t.”_

_In the face of Crowley’s pleading, of his obvious hurt, what else is he to do but – even if somewhat reluctantly – nod his assent. The hand hesitantly leaves his face, and though he does appreciate being able to speak once more, a part of him does miss the touch._

_“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand, I’d thought… Well. I do hope I haven’t misread anything, but… I was under the impression that my feelings for you-”_

_The wounded noise Crowley makes at that has anything else Aziraphale might have said stuck behind a sudden lump in his throat as his technically unnecessary heart clenches. He has to swallow twice before managing “My dear...”_

_“Don’t! You can’t.” Yellow eyes redirect their gaze downwards. “I am- I do- You’re not wrong, ‘s what I mean. About your impression. But we can’t… Aziraphale, all I did was_ asssk questions. _That was enough. You’re an angel, and if heaven ever finds out, if they’re listening, you’ll Fall, and I can’t… If you Fall and I’m the reason, I couldn’t… Promissse me, angel. Promise me you’ll never say it, you’ll never do anything that’d let them find out.”_

* * *

In silence, and thus deprived of distraction, Aziraphale’s eyes fix themselves to the pallor of Crowley’s graceful fingers wrapped around the wine glass, to the dark red of the wine swirling in it, to the way Crowley’s lips touch the glass and to the blush the wine stains them after the demon has taken a sip.* Hastily, he follows suit with his own glass, and distantly wonders whether Crowley’s eyes might be following his own motion in much the same way behind his shades.*

As the silence grows ever more uncomfortable, as silence is wont to do if it happens to be filled with too many unspoken things, his hand almost itches to reach for the notes on conversational topics tucked into the stack of books beside his chair, and if he were completely honest with himself, he would have already done so if it weren’t for that fact that doing so would force him to acknowledge their existence.

Luckily, Crowley, ever considerate whether intentionally so or not, saves him from having to make this decision.

“Sooo...” The faux-casual sound trails off into yet more silence.

Aziraphale clears his throat in a non-reply once it becomes apparent that no other words will be forthcoming from his friend, and they both simultaneously take another gulp of wine.

“How have you… whiled away the last two years?” He supposes it is a better conversational starter than _Still a demon, then?_ , if only slightly. The silence shaped to fit where the words _my dear_ might ordinarily go somehow feels even quieter.

“Oh, uh, uhm… Yeah, whiling, it’s been a while, lots of… you know. Wiles. A very wily while. You know how it is.”

“Yes, quite.” He hesitates, rethinking his answer. “Well, no, wiles aren’t really my department. Blessings, though, and a miracle here and there. It’s been rather peaceful.”

 _Lonely_ , he doesn’t say. Doesn’t mention how he’s been keeping an almost involuntary eye out for Crowley’s particular brand of mischief and minor inconveniences, something as familiar to him as the shape of his own wings, if not more so. A comforting reminder that he wasn’t alone these last two years that seem so much longer than any linear progression of time could account for, a way for him to see that Crowley has remained close without actually having to see him. No matter how much he might have wanted to.

Crowley swirls the wine in his glass a bit more. “Yeah, right. Peaceful. Peace is good. For your lot, I mean. I think. Is it? Were the crusades one of yours or one of ours?”

“I… I’m not entirely sure, to be honest.”

The half hoped-for lively discussions about events so long past neither of them can quite remember which side was responsible for or how they were caused doesn’t arise, and they fall once more into strained silence, and Aziraphale holds onto his glass with both hands to keep himself from reaching for his notes. Or for Crowley’s hand.

A hand which, the free one at least, is clenched into a tight fist, half-hidden from Aziraphale’s view where it’s slung over the back of the sofa. But there is no hiding it from his angelic senses once he allows himself to reach out with them for a split second. There is no hiding the faint sense of Crowley’s pain emanating from the limb where the demon’s sharp nails are cutting into the skin with nervous tension, nervous tension that has also settled into the wiry muscles of his shoulders deep enough to form the beginning of an ache there too. His instincts are screaming at him to reach out to heal, to soothe, to take the pain away, and it pains him down to the core of his being that Crowley is only growing more tense the longer the uncomfortable silence stretches.

This simply won’t do.

He tells Crowley as much.

“Wha?”

“Oh, shush.” Resolutely, before he can lose his nerve to do so, he sets his glass down on the coffee table and stands up, merely the length of a step separating his armchair from Crowley’s sofa and he has crossed it in between two unneeded heartbeats. The perfectly Aziraphale-sized empty space is still beside Crowley, and he cannot bear to leave it empty for another moment, settling himself in it with what he hopes will appear like confidence. Crowley tenses up even more.

“Aziraphale, what are you doing?” There is wariness in his voice, and an early hint of panic, but neither can drown out the longing.

“No. This won’t do at all.” he reiterates in lieu of a better answer, gathers his courage and gives into his instincts.

Takes Crowley’s hand from the back of the sofa and cradles it between his own as if it’s something precious.* To him, it is.

* * *

_The bell above the door doesn’t ring as the door closes behind Crowley, and silence envelops the bookshop, the kind of silence no beloved old vinyl could fill to his satisfaction. He wants to get up and walk to the window, to watch Crowley as he drives away, to drink in the sight of him for as long as he can when he doesn’t know when he might next have the opportunity, but his heart feels so heavy that he doesn’t trust his corporation’s legs to lift the sheer weight of it._

_Just as heavy, the promise he just gave lingers on his tongue, and the agreement that they ought to not meet each other for a while, bitter with regret. The demon left mere seconds ago, and already, he misses Crowley’s company. Misses their walks around St James, their dinners, their evenings in the bookshop, their clandestine meetings._

_Clandestine. Secretive. To be hidden, because as he has reminded both of them – more himself, if he is to be entirely honest – time and time again, they are an angel and a demon, on opposite sides, and Crowley is right. He may have only made the promise Crowley requested of him because he couldn’t bear to see the fear and desperation on his face and hear it in his voice as he begged, but they are an angel and a demon._

_He thinks of the fluttery warmth beneath his ribs whenever Crowley calls him_ angel _. Now, the word only seems like a painful reminder of what cannot be._

_Aziraphale turns away from the window and curls in on himself, willing his eyes to stay dry._

* * *

Gentle but insistently, he pries the clenched fingers loose until he can inspect the crescent-shaped indents on Crowley’s palm. He tuts, then places one hand onto it and lets himself reach out, soothe, heal. And amidst the miracle of healing, hidden, a fine thread spun throughout it, he sends a pulse of his love, barely enough to be felt by Crowley, but he dares no more than this.

It’s enough for Crowley to gasp softly, eyes going so wide that it’s evident even behind the shades.

“No! I- You- you sssaid… You can’t… _Angel._ ”

It isn’t an endearment this time, despite all the pained love filling that word. It’s a warning, a reminder of their respective places, and while it also fills him with determination. He sits up even straighter and doesn’t allow himself to hesitate as he reaches up to carefully remove the sunglasses from Crowley’s face, and meets those beautiful yellow eyes with calm and love and the kind of stubborn conviction only angels* can achieve.

“Yes, that is precisely what I am.” he says, in a voice a little more miffed than he intended.

“Hgn! That’sss- You _can’t_. Aziraphale, pleassse, you’ll _Fall_ a- a- and...”

As calmly as he can muster, he entwines their fingers and uses his free hand to gently caress along Crowley’s arm until he reaches his neck and can begin to soothe the painful tension from the muscle. And if his fingertips linger a little longer than they strictly need to, only he and Crowley know it.

“No. I am an angel, we are meant to heal and comfort, and we are beings of Love. I am meant to Love all God’s creatures, great and small.”

Crowley, obviously missing the point, groans. “Demon, remember? I’m pretty sure that doesn’t include demons. ‘Cause last I checked, our sides didn’t get along. Something to do with all that pesky rebellion and, you know, Falling business.”

“Well, how can you be sure that demons aren’t included?”

To Aziraphale’s relief, some of the panic in Crowley’s eyes fades to make room for incredulity. “Did you not hear even a single word of what I just said?”

“Oh no, I heard you quite well, my dear. However, all we truly know is that the Almighty instructed us to Love all Her creations. So was Her word, and the Almighty’s will is...” Watching Crowley grimace even before Aziraphale can say it sends an unexpected, almost giddy rush of warmth and affection through him, along with the long-anticipated comfort of the milennia-old familiarity between them. He gives his demon a smug smile and puts even more emphasis on the word “ _ineffable_. It isn’t for us to interpret, so I will simply take Her at Her word, and Love _all_ Her creatures.”

He may not get to love Crowley the way he truly wants to, the way his demon deserves to be loved. He cannot love him openly, cannot love him outside this little loophole he has found for them, but he will Love him in whichever way he can get away with, and he squeezes Crowley’s hand where it’s held in his and wills him to understand.

The panic ebbs away, leaving the yellow eyes wary and cautious but warm, a hint of the softest smile reaching them.

“You’re going to be stubborn about this, aren’t you, angel.”

But the term is an endearment once more, and finally, if hesitantly, Crowley’s fingers tighten and his hand holds Aziraphale’s back.

* * *

The fact that he has spent the past six hours noting down possible topics for said conversation and ways to start them, and has tucked away said notes discreetly but within easy access between some books belies this.↑

The word ‘sip’ here is inaccurate. ‘Taken a large gulp in the inelegant and slightly desperate fashion of someone who feels a strong need for any courage alcohol might provide’ would be a more apt description, but Aziraphale is biased.↑

They are.↑

At this point, Crowley drops his wine glass, but as he doesn’t want to make a mess in his angel’s beloved bookshop, without either being’s conscious notice, the wine ends up back in the bottle while the glass itself is relieved to find itself once more, washed and dried, in the kitchen cupboard.↑

Or, as Crowley could tell you, one angel in particular.↑

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you liked it, pretty please leave a comment, comments are love _and_ Love :D


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